


If I Was Dying On My Knees

by rawrkinjd



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Biting, Bottom Eskel (The Witcher), Dom Drop, Dom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Dom/sub, Flogging, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Impact Play, M/M, Sub Eskel (The Witcher), Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:26:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29885229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rawrkinjd/pseuds/rawrkinjd
Summary: Geralt and Eskel have a longstanding arrangement. It's the opposite of what people expect. Or is it?
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 44
Kudos: 145





	If I Was Dying On My Knees

**Author's Note:**

> Geralt suffers from dom drop. It's not as studied (or as written about) as sub drop. 
> 
> Often (not always), it takes one of two forms. "I'm a monster" (how could I do this to the person I love? What the fuck even am I?) and "this is wrong" (usually stepping out of your 'role' as dictated by societal or cultural norms). Geralt is affected on the surface by the first, and perhaps by the latter on another level.
> 
> The negotiation isn't featured in this story, but the aftercare and cuddles are.
> 
> The title of the story is taken from "Brother" by Kodaline. The theme of the song is sacrifice.

Geralt presses his thumb into the firm curve of Eskel’s ass, the skin red and hot beneath his touch, and the chains around Eskel’s wrists rattle as he clenches. A soft groan follows the involuntary spasm as fluttering muscles clutch needily around the plug pushed deep inside him. Geralt’s grip tightens on the flogger, and he trails the leather tails across Eskel’s lower back, enjoying the way every powerful muscle coils and relaxes in their wake, waiting for the sting of their impact. Eskel lays on his stomach; his face pressed into the furs beneath him, his body immobilised by the chains around his wrists and willful obedience.

They’ve been going for two hours, perhaps longer, but Geralt’s not really paying attention to the passing of time. His entire focus—his entire world—is Eskel. Every breath he inhales is saturated with the scent of his lover’s arousal as it seeps out with his sweat, the desperate pain-pleasure of being in Geralt’s care.

Geralt knows how to wind him up and string him out. He knows the meaning of each grunt and growl, muffled by Eskel’s stubborn resistance, his mind unwilling to drift without assistance. Unwilling to let go of the weight of responsibility and the sharp pain of reality. It takes time for Eskel’s grip on the world to loosen, but Geralt knows the sounds of Eskel’s slow release as well as he knows how to make it happen; the soft whines intermingled with guttural moans mark the descent, desperate gasps edged with whines are Geralt’s signal to even off, to nurse Eskel through on that high. 

The cadence of Eskel’s pleasure—soft, desperate and beautiful—is as familiar to Geralt as the roll of Roach’s gait or the rhythm of their footwork drills. It’s been part of his life for as long as he can remember. Eskel trusts him with this. Trusts him to break through the wall of numbness he builds every year to protect him from the pain inflicted by others. He checks anyway because Geralt will never trust himself enough. He noses through the sweat-damp hair at Eskel’s ear and whispers his question. “Colour?”

A quiet hitch of breath; Eskel making sure his answer is true because pushing himself would mean hurting Geralt too. “Green.”

Eskel’s nearly there. He needs a little longer. If Geralt pushes too hard too quickly, the fragile balance breaks and Eskel’s high sours. Pain is something a witcher deals with every day. Geralt can feel it, constant and aching, deep in his own bones. He could cause Eskel pain with ease—break his skin, make him bleed—but Eskel would only hunker down and absorb it like he did a necrophage’s bite or a werewolf’s claw. This is different. Their time together isn’t about the pain. It’s about surrender.

In this lull as Eskel plateaus, Geralt stops to admire the strength of the body under his control. The mounds and valleys of tight muscles padded now with a layer of winter stores slowly melting into soft furs; broad shoulders so used to carrying the weight of the world and decades of self-chastisement relaxing slowly, allowing their burden to slide free. Those strong hands, dexterous and skilled, knead at the linens, searching for every anchor to the world, any sensation that will stop him from floating away.

Geralt pinches another handful of reddened flesh, and Eskel gasps again, his hips stuttering forward into the bed in search of friction. “Geralt,” Eskel pleads, his voice taut. His cock—thick, with its subtle curve and fat, swollen head—will be hard and leaking beneath him. _Not yet._

“You’re doing so well, szczenię,” Geralt whispers, his grip loosening to stroke sore skin with the flat of his palm. His fingers curl again, following the seam of Eskel’s cleft to the hard ivory at his whole; Geralt taps the base and Eskel shudders, body powerless to resist the ripple of shock that passes up his spine. “Do you want me?”

“Yes,” Eskel bites out, voice wavery. “I need – I – .”

Because Geralt wants Eskel. The sight of his body teetering on the brink of surrender, quivering below his hand in desperate need—need to be touched, to be brought under control, to be allowed to let go—makes his heart rate. His prick curls up towards his stomach, his head slick with the beads of precum that well with every well-placed strike, with every restrained noise that escapes Eskel’s throat. He’s desperate. Desperate to possess, desperate for Eskel to beg for him, to want him, and need him. Because when he’s raw, when he’s been stripped completely bare by the flogger in Geralt’s hand, his heart as exposed as his flesh, Geralt can be certain that Eskel means it.

“Then you need to let go for me,” Geralt rises from his knees and stands over his lover, the handle of the flogger curling back into his palm. He drags those tails down the slope of Eskel’s back and watches his spine arch. “Ten more.” The leather cracks against inflamed skin. It’s a sharp, harsh noise that contrasts with the softness of the sound it breaks from Eskel’s chest. The welts spring upon his back immediately. Geralt has the measure of force down to a fine art; he knows exactly what Eskel’s body can take before it splits and bleeds. He leaves behind a web of prickling sensation as he weaves in a figure of eight. The downwards stroke leaves stripes down Eskel’s back; the upwards flicks across his bruised ass.

The whimpering cry is Geralt’s first signal, followed by a low, guttural moan as the sensation of the last few strikes throbs through Eskel’s body. The surface of his skin throbs with heat as Geralt sinks to his knees and leans in close to place a kiss between his shoulder blades. “P—please, Geralt, please… fuck me, please, please,” Eskel babbles, amber eyes flickering as his face finally tilts free from the pillows; he writhes, his back arching, muscles fluid and loose. _Needy._ The shift of the plug inside him forces another moan; his toes curl, his wrists pull at the restraints.

“My beautiful szczenię,” Geralt whispers, tucking his face into Eskel’s hair. “My beautiful Eskel.”

“Y—yes,” Eskel whispers, eyes barely open, as Geralt teases a hand down his back. The pleasure blisters through him as callused fingerpads brush each of the throbbing welts before finally reaching the plug between the cheeks of his ass. He pushes it at first and Eskel keens, his mouth falling open. “N—no, please, your cock, fuck me, Geralt, please—fuck, please.” The plug eases out, leaving behind a glistening trail of oil, and Eskel spreads his thighs a little further as Geralt adjusts between them. He smothers his prick in what’s left, finger and thumb pressed beneath his head as he angles his hips.

“Don’t move. You take everything you’re given,” Geralt murmurs his order, and Eskel nods quickly, only to dissolve into another moan as Geralt pushes his head just inside his rim. He holds it there, testing Eskel’s obedience; he watches his entire body shake, feels it flutter as Eskel fights the urge to thrust back and takes all he wants. He holds out because he knows Geralt has the perfect measure of what he needs. 

“Good.” His voice is tight as he guards himself. The moment of possession feeds something feral and bestial in Geralt’s chest; it rumbles with pleasure as Eskel’s tight, slick hole spreads open around the crown of his prick and tries to swallow more. Something so strong, so powerful, quivering in anticipation of the pleasure only he can provide. It’s a stark contrast to the world outside, where Geralt is powerless and ignored. Every part of Eskel - his mind, his body - is attuned to Geralt. Nothing else exists.

He sinks in slowly. Shallow, slow thrusts that gift Eskel a fraction more each time. He whimpers and gasps, hips canting in a moment of weakness that Geralt allows because it’s such a beautiful gesture of supplication. He adjusts on his knees and scoops those solid thighs up with his hands; Eskel mewls, such a far cry from the deep timbre of his voice, and Geralt finally bottoms out with a low growl. He holds himself there, gazes down at the sight of his cock pressed into Eskel’s body, and bites his lower lip. Eskel likes it hard and raw and relentless. He wants to feel Geralt inside him through the following day when he sits or pirouettes during training; Geralt sees him pressing surreptitiously at the rapidly healing welts on his thighs to recall a flicker of that memory.

So Geralt gives Eskel what he wants. He draws back and drives home with a ruthless thrust and punches a cry of pure ecstasy from the man in his grasp. It’s a half-truth, though. Because Geralt wants it too; he wants to bring Eskel down, to flog away his armour and fuck him into the mattress like an animal. It lights a fire in his chest, kindles the beast, and he lets go of those strong thighs to bear down harder. Geralt binds a hand around Eskel’s throat and pulls him back, squeezing him below his jaw as he pounds into him. He bites as much as he kisses, leaving behind more red marks on sun-darkened skin. Eskel throws his legs wide, his gasps strangled by Geralt’s grip, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. 

Eskel shakes through his first orgasm, and Geralt throws him over onto his back; Eskel arches as the welts, damped with sweat, stick to the furs, but he still babbles for more. _Begs Geralt to take him_. His wrists twist in the chains above his head, pulling muscular arms taut; his stomach’s smeared in his own release, huge cock soft and fat as it lolls through it, but Geralt doesn’t take pause. He thrusts back inside and leans down to bite into Eskel’s barreled chest, tastes his skin and his sweat, leaves crescent moon bruises behind.

The swell of his release builds quickly in the raw fanaticism of his worship. For that’s what this is—worship. Geralt wants to consume every inch of Eskel, to have him, to mark him so that no one else will ever go near. Part born of yearning and love, but also the fear that underpinned all of Geralt’s relationships, he didn’t deserve Eskel, so one day, he would leave. One day, Geralt would tear himself to pieces, reforming himself in the shape he thinks Eskel wants, but it still won’t be enough. But like this—vulnerable, desperate—Eskel only wants him. His name is the only one that spills over those beautifully imperfect lips in a mantra of adoration. Geralt gives Eskel what he wants—what he needs—and so Eskel will _always_ stay.

When his hips stutter, he presses deep to fill Eskel and lay his claim. Geralt growls into Eskel’s throat; his mouth closed over his hammering pulse. If he bites down any harder, he’d taste Eskel’s blood in his mouth. They lay panting, the air clouded with the scent of the furore and their release until Geralt pulls himself up and releases the cuffs. With his prick softening between his thighs, he stumbles over to the bowl of clean water and sets it to a boil with a quick flick of igni before carrying it back to the bed.

He washes Eskel tenderly, whispers to him gently, praises him—“beautiful, perfect for me”—and lets him float in warmth and safety. While he has Eskel to focus on, to kiss and hold, he’s happy. Eskel gazes up at him with wide, adoring eyes, and Geralt knows that Eskel will stay. Eskel is his.

It’s only when those amber oculars are closed when the stark light of the morning falls through the curtains, and Geralt looks at the damage on Eskel’s body that the cold weight sinks through his stomach. He sees the marks his teeth have left behind, the red welts rendered in honey skin by the flogger. The lines Geralt has made aren’t permanent, but his eyes flicker to the scars on Eskel’s back anyway. _They might as well be._

He feels sick. Not because of what he’d done—Eskel had asked, their consent was always explicit—but because he’d _enjoyed_ it. Of course, he did; Geralt was a beast, the butcher. Of course, the sex he enjoyed the most was wrung from the act of hurting another, consensual or not. He was worse than any monster he killed because even they didn’t take pleasure from another’s pain.

The nausea grows stronger. He leaves the bed and walks to the bowl by the window. He left it there last night before he climbed into bed and curled around his lover. Under the heavy blanket of darkness, it was easy to convince himself that such an act was within the realms of a human appetite. Had he not seen others request such in brothels? He heard the crack of paddles and floggers even as he received his own service. Eskel asks for this. It frees him.

Geralt plunges his shaking hands into the water and splashes a wave over his face. It mixes with the tears he didn’t realise had fallen, and he scratches blunt nails through the bristles of his beard. The weight in his chest grows heavier. It pulls down until it feels like his heart is being torn in half. He looks down at his hands, the fingers gnarled by years of abuse, and watches them shake. Vulnerable, empty. Why -?

“Geralt,” says a honey-rich voice. Warm hands slide around his chest, dropping to his narrow waist to pull him close. “Breathe,” the voice demands, and he does. He hadn’t even realised he’d been holding it. Full lips press to the back of his neck, warm nose following the soft hairs to his ear. “It’s alright.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah,” Eskel pulls away and turns him. Geralt is faced with the beauty of him once again and can barely drag his eyes from the floor to look. Eskel takes his hand instead, pressing his fingertips into the crescent grooves of the bite over his heart. The animal in Geralt had tried to eat it straight from his chest. “Look at me.”

“Eskel…”

“Look at me, Wolf.”

Geralt does. Finally. He finds gentleness and understanding. His breath hitches, and Eskel holds him there. He holds him steady with just a look, even as his own heart is buffeted in a maelstrom of toxic emotion. “I’m sorry, I…”

“You’re feelin’ rotten,” Eskel says for him as he struggles over the words, so all Geralt has to do is nod. “You think you hurt me. Like everyone else does.” Another nod. “You didn’ Geralt. You set me free.” 

Geralt chokes out a sob, and then Eskel’s lips are on his. He kisses him fiercely. There is as much teeth as there is tongue, and he clings to Eskel’s naked form, tries to push himself close, melt inside him. Eskel cradles him; strong, certain. Geralt’s bulwark until he’s steady on his feet again. When they draw apart, they’re both breathless. Geralt looks down at the mast of Eskel’s prick and smirks. “Getting too old for marathon sex, Eskel.”

“You’re as old as me, wise guy,” Eskel says, shoving him lightly in the chest. They stare at Eskel’s cock in the silence, their foreheads resting together eventually, sharing the same air. The same heartbeat. “Thank you. For… for helpin’ me.”

Yellow eyes lock together, so close they cross in the blur. “Can we - can you just -,” Geralt straightens, takes Eskel’s hand, “just hold me for a bit.”

Eskel grins, lopsided and radiant. No one else gets Eskel’s smile. Not on the Path, none of his other partners, not even the other wolves. Eskel’s smile belongs to Geralt. Just like his heart. “Sure. Big spoon or little?”

“Choices,” Geralt growls in mock indecision. He already knows the answer; he needs to prove to himself that he can protect Eskel as well as he can hurt him. “Big.”

“Suit yourself.” Eskel shrugs and saunters over the bed. When he throws himself onto the mattress and furs, he does so with a dramatic sigh, slumping onto his side with a soft groan. Geralt follows, and as he kneels, he takes a moment to kiss the reddest of the welts on Eskel’s back. The muscles beneath his mouth coil, and Eskel lets out a soft sigh of pleasure. “Thought we were spoonin’, not fuckin’.”

“Mm.” Geralt smiles as he pulls the furs over, draping himself across Eskel’s broad back. He buries his face in his lover’s hair, smothering his senses with scent and touch—the weight and the cold fade into a warm thrum of passionate heat. The voices in Geralt’s head quieten their incessant baying, and the guilt lessens with each passing moment. 

Eskel is Geralt’s everything. He adds meaning and colour to Geralt’s otherwise empty, grey world. Geralt would tear himself asunder to keep Eskel happy, to keep him close, and he knows Eskel will always be there to pull him from the darkness. What they have isn’t perfect, but it’s theirs.


End file.
